“But how did he know?”
“Ah, yes. How did he discover that I was on his trail before I knew it myself? I think we shall make another call upon the Duke of Shires, at his town-house in Berkeley Square.”
We were not destined, however, to make that visit. At that moment the bell again rang downstairs, and we heard Mrs. Hudson again answer the door. A great clatter followed; the caller had rushed past our landlady and was taking the stairs two at a time. Our door burst open, and there he stood, a thin and pimple-faced youth with a great air of defiance about him. His manner was such that my hand moved automatically towards a fire-iron.
“W’ich o’ you gents is Mr. Sherlock ’Olmes?”
“I, my lad,” answered Holmes; and the youth extended a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “This ’ere’s to be given to yer, then.”
Holmes took the parcel and opened it with no ceremony.
“The missing scalpel!” cried I.
Holmes had no chance to reply. The messenger had bolted, and Holmes whirled about. “Wait!” he shouted. “I must speak with you! You shall not be harmed!”
But the boy was gone. Holmes rushed from the room. I hastened to the window, and beheld the youth fleeing down the street as though all the devils of Hell were after him, Sherlock Holmes swiftly in his wake.
Ellery’s Legman Legs It Again
“Rachel?”
She looked back over her shoulder. “Grant! Grant Ames!”
“Just thought I’d drop in,” said the playboy.
“So sweet of you!”
Rachel Hager wore a pair of blue jeans and a tight sweater. She had long legs and a slim body, but there were plenty of curves. Her mouth was full and wide, and her eyes were an odd off-brown, and her nose was pugged. She looked like a madonna who had run into a door.
This pleasing paradox did not escape Grant Ames, III. She didn’t look like this the other day, he thought, and pointed to what she had been doing in the backyard.
“I didn’t know you grew roses.”
Her laugh revealed the most beautiful buck teeth. “I try. Heavens, how I try. But my thumb stays its natural color. What brings you into the wilds of New Rochelle?” She slipped off her gloves and lifted a strand of hair off her forehead. The shade was mouse brown, but Grant was sure that, bottled, it would have lined them up at the cosmetic counters.
“Just driving by. Hardly got a chance to say hello at Lita’s the other a day.”
“I was there by accident. I couldn’t stay around.”
“I noticed you didn’t swim.”
“Why, Grant! Such a nice compliment. Most girls are noticed when they do. How about the patio? I’ll bring you a drink. Scotch, isn’t it?”
“At times, but at the moment I could do with a frosty iced tea.”
“Really? I’ll be right back.”
When she returned, Grant watched her cross her long legs in a lawn chair too low to be comfortable. For some reason he was stirred. “Lovely garden.”
That enchanting buck-toothed laugh again. “You should see it after the kids leave.”
“The kids?”
“From the orphanage. We bring a group over once a week, and it’s wild. They do respect the roses, though. One little girl just sits and stares. Yesterday I gave her an ice cream cone and it melted all over her hand. It was that Mammoth Tropicana over there. She tried to kiss it.”
“I didn’t know you worked with children.” As a matter of cold fact, Grant had not had the least idea what Rachel did, and until now had not cared a whit.
“I’m sure I get more out of it than they do. I’m working on my Master’s now, and I have time to spare. I was thinking of the Peace Corps. But there’s so much to do right here in the U.S.―in town, in fact.”
“You’re gorgeous,” Grant unbelievingly heard himself mutter.
The girl looked up quickly, not sure she had heard him right. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I was trying to remember how many times I’ve seen you. The first was at Snow Mountain, wasn’t it?”
“I think it was.”
“Jilly Hart introduced us.”
“I remember because I broke my ankle that trip. But how can you possibly remember? With your harem?”
“I’m not entirely irresponsible,” said Grant stuffily.
“I mean, why should you? Me? You’ve never shown―”
“Would you do me a favor, Rachel?”
“What?” asked Rachel suspiciously.
“Go back and do what you were doing when I got here. Dig at your roses. I want to sit here and look at you.”
“Is this your latest line?”
“It’s very strange,” he mumbled.
“Grant. What did you come here for?”
“What?”
“I said, what did you come here for?”
“Damned if I can remember.”
“I’ll bet you can,” the girl said, a little grimly. “Try.”
“Let me see. Oh! To ask if you’d put a brown manila envelope on the seat of my Jag at Lita’s. But the hell with that. What kind of fertilizer do you use?”
Rachel squatted. Grant had visions of Vogue.
“I have no formula. I just keep mixing. Grant, what’s the matter with you?”
He looked down at the lovely brown hand on his arm.
My God/ It’s happened!
“If I come back at seven, will you have a frock on?” he asked.
She looked at him with a dawning light. “Of course, Grant,” she said softly.
“And you won’t mind my showing you off here and there?”
The hand squeezed. “You darling.”
“Ellery, I’ve found her, I’ve found her!” Grant Ames III babbled over the telephone.
“Found whom?”
“THE Woman!”
“Who put the envelope in your car?” Ellery said in a peculiar voice.
“Who put what?” said Grant.
“The envelope. The journal.”
“Oh.” There was a silence. “You know what, Ellery?”
“No. What?”
“I didn’t find out.”
Ellery went back to Dr. Watson, shrugging.
Chapter IX
The Lair of the Ripper
I could do nothing but wait. Infected by Holmes’s fever of impatience, trying to occupy the hours, I assessed the situation, endeavouring to apply the methods I had so long witnessed Holmes employ.
His identification of the Ripper as one of four men came in for its share of my ponderings, you may be sure, but I was confused by other elements of the puzzle―Mycroft’s assertion that, as yet, his brother did not have all the pieces, and Holmes’s yearning to come to grips with the “tiger” prowling London’s by-ways. If the Ripper was one of four persons whom Holmes had already met, where did the “tiger” fit in? And why was it necessary to locate him before the Ripper could be brought to book?
Elation would have been mine, had I known that at that moment I myself held the key. But I was blind to both the key and its significance; and, when this knowledge did come to me, it brought only humiliation.
Thus I fretted away the hours with but a single break in the monotony. This occurred when a note was delivered to Baker Street by a smartly-uniformed page-boy. “Sir, a message from Mr. Mycroft Holmes to Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“Mr. Holmes is absent at the moment,” said I. “You may leave the note.”
After I had dismissed the page, I examined the note. It was in a sealed envelope, from the Foreign Office. The Foreign Office was where Mycroft had his being.
My fingers were itching to tear the flap, but of course I did not. I pocketed the missive and went on with my pacing. The hours passed, with no sign of Holmes. At times, I went to the window and watched the fog that was settling in over London. As twilight fell, I remarked to myself what a fortuitous night this would be for the Ripper.